


Compliant

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom John Watson, Captain John Watson, Dom/sub Undertones, Intervention, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Worried John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock has returned, but he's different. John is worried, and Harry suggests an intervention. Surely that's a good idea, getting all their friends together so they can figure out what's wrong?That all depends, of course, how much you want your friends to know about your sexual preferences...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0foxgiven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0foxgiven/gifts).



> For a very patient 0foxgiven, who gave me a very wide range to write! Thank you! I hope you enjoy this. :)
> 
> Chapter 1: the intervention and aftermath. M for a teensy bit of graphic language.  
> Chapter 2: nudity and lube. Definite E rating.
> 
> Oh, and in case you have issues with John's definitions and attitudes towards dom/sub relationships and practices and BDSM culture in general, remember it's the character and not necessarily the author who thinks that way. :)

Sherlock stopped in the downstairs hall of 221 Baker Street and frowned up at the ceiling. The flat was…different. It felt wrong. Too crowded. Bodies shifting, a quiet murmur of hushed voices. Not hostile, though. He took the stairs two at a time, impatient to _know_. Bursting through the door, he skidded to a stop.

“What the hell is going on here?” he asked. A sea of faces stared back at him.

+++

John passed one hand over his face. He had no idea if he was doing the right thing, but he had to do something. Ever since Sherlock returned from the dead something had been off. He’d been the same as always with almost everyone, except John. With John he’d been…quieter. Less argumentative, surely, but that wasn’t all.

Where John would almost always have given into Sherlock’s whims, in food, transport and especially on cases, now there were no whims. Well, none that didn’t directly relate to the solving of a case. Even then, if John grumbled or made a suggestion, Sherlock obviously thought hard about John’s proposal, often acquiescing.

In theory Sherlock’s changed temperament was exactly what John’d been wanting for all the months before Sherlock’s ‘death’. In actuality though, the dynamic was far more difficult than he’d thought it would be. Their rhythm was off, and awkward periods of silence were now common.

John wondered if Sherlock had been traumatised by his time away, then pulled himself up. Sherlock had been candid about the abuse he’d endured while absent from London. There was no way he’d _not_ been traumatised. John tried to be mindful of how he treated Sherlock, conscious that overly dominant behaviour might trigger the PTSD no doubt hiding under his cavalier attitude to his health.

Frustratingly, no matter how gentle John was, Sherlock remained the same. A few times, John tried to broach the subject, but Sherlock had either changed the topic or refused to admit any change to his behaviour. John read all the professional journals he could find, hoping to find something about reaching reluctant PTSD patients. He’d called on several friends from medical school who specialised in psychiatry, but nothing he found (and tried) worked.

Venting his worries to Harry one day had resulted in unexpected dividends.

“You could always stage an intervention,” Harry said, rolling her eyes.

“A what?” John asked.

“An intervention! They do it all the time on TV.” Harry refused to continue explaining, so John did a little research. To his surprise, it sounded like something worth trying at least. He read all he could on the subject before calling Mycroft. When the elder brother protested, John gave him no choice – Captain Watson did have his uses, after all.

And so here they were, sitting uncomfortably in John’s sitting room, waiting for Sherlock to return.

+++

When Sherlock burst in the door, everyone startled but John.

Sherlock blinked at the room for a silent moment.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

“Sit down please Sherlock,” John said. This was the moment Sherlock might bolt, and he tensed himself to dive at the man if necessary. To his immense relief, Sherlock sat.

“This is an intervention,” John began carefully. “These are the people who love you the most in the world, Sherlock.” He watched as Sherlock looked around at the faces turned his way.

“Why is Mycroft here, then?” Sherlock asked rudely.

“Everyone is here voluntarily, Sherlock,” John replied calmly.

“John is concerned for your welfare, Sherlock,” Mycroft told his brother. “Surely you can grant him the courtesy of listening to his concerns?”

Sherlock, tight lipped, looked at each of the others before nodding once, two spots of colour rising on his cheeks.

“I never thought I’d be worried about you because you weren’t arguing with me,” John began. “But it’s not only that. You’re far less demanding.”

Silence rang for a moment before a chorus of voices responded to John’s claim.

“Not to me,” Lestrade said with a chuckle.

“Or me,” Molly added.

“I’m still being shouted for at all hours,” Mrs. Hudson said. She frowned. “We’ve all come here to support you John, but did you actually check that Sherlock is acting any differently to anybody else?”

“Well, no,” John said, conscious that everyone’s attention was now firmly on him. Now he addressed the room. “Has anyone noticed Sherlock behaving differently? Less demanding, more…compliant?”

Lestrade was the only one to snort in amusement. As John looked around the room, however, everyone appeared equally entertained by the idea.

“Hang on, so Sherlock’s only being different with me? Sherlock, is that true?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded mutely.

“Why?” John asked, making a conscious effort to temper his, well, temper.

The careless shrug was as frustrating as ever and John ground his teeth together. “I am trying to help you! Will you _please_ tell me what is going on?” John said, exasperation in his voice. He wasn’t aware he’d moved until he realised he was standing to attention. His eyes were locked on Sherlock, who appeared to be frozen, eyes matching John’s in intensity.

Everything receded. It was just John and Sherlock, eyes locked together...

“Well that’s certainly illuminated things, thank you Doctor Watson,” Mycroft drawled. The sound of his voice broke the spell, and John looked at him, at the smug look he now bore.

“What?” John asked. He still had no idea what Mycroft was on about, but the older brother was now addressing the younger.

“Really, Sherlock? I’m pleased you’ve finally seen what has been so evident to so many for so, so long.” He uncrossed his legs and looked around the room at the shared confusion on most faces. “Oh for the love of…”

“What?” Lestrade said. Mycroft sighed dramatically before bending down to whisper in his ear. John couldn’t hear what was said, but the understanding that settled into a smirk was enough to know that Mycroft had told Greg whatever it was he’d deduced about Sherlock. With a knowing grin and wink at Sherlock, Lestrade turned to Molly, sitting next to him and passed on the explanation.

“Oh!” The sound was loud, and Molly’s face flushed red. Her eyes flew to Sherlock, whose expression of resigned suffering must have convinced her of Mycroft’s accuracy.

John watched as her eyes filled with tears and she stood, excusing herself as she half ran out the door. He looked at Greg, beseeching him to explain.

“I’m sure you’ll get it, mate,” Greg chuckled, helping Mrs. Hudson up.

“But I don’t understand!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. A low murmuring from Greg followed them out, and John heard her exclaim from the stairs, “Oh! Well we already knew that, didn’t we?”

“I’ll leave you two, then.” Mycroft sounded even more smug than he looked. “I’m sure you two have a lot to discuss.”

He turned to Sherlock. “Brother,” Sherlock made a rude face but remained silent, “and Captain Watson,” Mycroft addressed John. He stepped closer, the smug expression dropping as he murmured, “Look after him. Please.”

John kept his back to Sherlock, his fist clenching as he breathed deeply. Nothing was to be gained by shouting. He counted to ten in English then rusty Pashto before turning back to Sherlock. He’d stood up now, and John raised his head to meet those apprehensive eyes.

“Well it seems that everyone except me knows what’s going on.” John was proud of the quiet calm of his voice.

“An irrefutable statement, John,” Sherlock said in the careful tone John had come to despise. Those eyes dropped to the floor, mild and unchallenging, and John snapped.

“I can’t help you unless you tell me what is going on!” he snapped, unconsciously repeating his earlier demand.

This time, there was nothing to distract him from Sherlock’s reaction. At the tone of his voice – damn it, he’d dropped back into Captain Watson after trying so hard to relax – Sherlock’s tense posture had melted. His back loosened, eyes rose to meet John’s – and this time John saw what Mycroft’s keen eyes had deduced.

Sherlock liked Captain Watson.

A lot.

“Sherlock?”

Nothing.

“Mister Holmes,” John repeated, taking Captain Watson’s authority once again, “tell me. Now.”

It was remarkable, he thought. Body language spoke louder than anything. Sherlock didn’t even need to open his mouth, but it was reassuring to have his deduction finally confirmed when that baritone finally growled,

“Fine. While I was away, I realised the thing I missed most was you. Specifically, the dominant aspect of you. I had plenty of time to think about it, to confirm my conclusion by recalling our interactions.”

“So, you missed me?” John asked. There was something he was missing here…

“More than that, John!” Now that the conversation was finally taking place, Sherlock seemed eager to explain himself. “I missed the dominant part of you, John.” He stopped. “I missed you being dominant. Over me.”

John stopped. “You did?”

Sherlock nodded. His pale skin was flushed, John could see. Christ, even the conversation was getting to him. John’s eyes raked once over Sherlock’s tall frame, stuttering over the now obvious bulge ruining the line of those well cut trousers.

“You did.” John stated, eyebrows rising at the evidence in front of him. He swallowed. “So you’re interested in…”

“You.” Sherlock filled in.

“Sexually.” John stated, though it was a question.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied calmly.

John paused. “But...”

Sherlock sighed. “And this is why I have not shared this with you, John.”

“What?” John said. He was still trying to figure out why acknowledgement of Sherlock’s erection – inspired by Captain Watson, no less – was so...distracting. No, that wasn’t the word…

“You are clearly uncomfortable with the idea, John. You’re shifting your weight, you’re not meeting my eyes…let’s just forget about it.” Sherlock made to walk away, but John extended one hand, mind still racing. He pressed on Sherlock’s shoulder, sitting him back on the sofa.

“John?” Sherlock asked, but John shook his head mutely. He had been shifting, as Sherlock pointed out, but not because he was uncomfortable with the idea. The restlessness was closer to…excitement. It was a familiar feeling, the pooling of heat in his groin, and it had nothing to do with discomfort. Excitement wasn’t the right word either. With a whisper of awareness, the word _arousal_ skittered through his mind. As soon as it did, his eyes snapped to Sherlock’s.

Those blue eyes were still looking at him with a mixture of confusion and…arousal. Definitely arousal. John felt his fingers curl slightly around Sherlock’s shoulder. This was what he had wanted so long ago, what he had quashed when it because apparently that Sherlock didn’t do that sort of thing. But now, _now_ …

“Sherlock,” John said carefully in his own voice, “I believe you’ve made a slight error.”

“Have I?” Sherlock replied neutrally.

“Yes.” There was a hint of Captain Watson there, and John watched closely as Sherlock registered it. “In fact,” John chose his words cautiously, “I find myself mutually…interested.”

“Interested?” Sherlock repeated blankly. “In me?”

“Yes.” John answered.

“Sexually?” Sherlock said, swallowing hard.

“Yes.” John replied. With a slight smile, he added, “I think we’ve had this conversation already.”

“I think we have,” Sherlock said slowly. He sank back into the sofa, eyes still locked on John. “So…”

“I think, Sherlock,” John said, taking a deep breath, “you should stand up for me.”

Sherlock stood immediately without comment. John, having stepped back to allow Sherlock space, pursed his lips. His heart was racing, mind stumbling along behind it. This needed to be…slow. Considered. He stepped back again, consciously slipping into Captain Watson mode. Kicking back his shoulders, John clasped his hands behind his back and raked his eyes slowly down Sherlock’s body, lingering on points of interest, of which there were several.

“A few questions before we begin,” John asked, imagining he was addressing a nervous recruit. In charge, but not aggressive. It put the right tone into his voice, and Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath told him he was on the right track.

“Is this about Captain Watson? His military presence?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock answered immediately. “I mean, not specifically. I just like…you being in charge.”

“Right,” John considered that. Something in Sherlock’s tone was still a little evasive. There was some part of what he’d said that was only a half truth. “Do you mean all the time, or just…sexually?”

“Not all the time,” Sherlock said. “I mean, I don’t want our relationship to be like that all the time.”

“So you mean you want a sexual relationship with a dominant version of me.” John clarified. He had no idea if he was using the right words or whatever, but he knew it was important to try and understand exactly what Sherlock was expecting.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, though he sounded uncertain.

“Alright.” John said, trying not to sound to frustrated with the half answers. “Why don’t you tell me what you envision this looking like.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I want you to…make decisions. For me. When we’re in bed. To tell me what to do, be…decisive about what’s best.” His face was increasingly red, but he went on, “I want you to…penetrate me. If you want. Or the other way, if you’d prefer.” John felt his own face flush at the word ‘penetrate’. It was shockingly unambiguous, and John had to push away the mental images it conjured.

“Anything you absolutely don’t want to try?” John smiled, hoping to dispel the tension a little. “Remembering you’re talking to a pretty vanilla guy here. I’m not going to be breaking out the weird toys or anything.”

Sherlock smiled a little, then his face became serious as he said, “I don’t want you to…hit me. At all. Nothing with water. Or electricity. Or-”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John broke in. It sounded like Sherlock was listing all the things he’d endured in the name of torture as though John might want to use them for fun. The very idea was horrifying.

“No, no. Just, no. I would never even ask. Not after…” John swallowed hard. “I’m going to tell you now, when you said dominant, that was not what I was thinking.”

Christ, he had no idea what he was doing in this conversation. “I’d be up for light bondage, if you want, but…” he drew a deep breath. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not for fun, or...satisfaction, or anything.”

Sherlock blew out a breath. “Me either,” he replied. Very quietly he said, “You make me feel safe, John.”

That one small sentence, a secret admission for his ears only, gave John more understanding than the whole rest of the conversation.

“You want to be protected.” John said the words quietly, and the relief in Sherlock’s eyes as he nodded mutely told John he’d finally hit on the right word. Sherlock was looking for security, for shelter; he wanted someone to take care of him by making his decisions for him. And he’d chosen John.

A flood of relief flowed through John. When he thought ‘dominant’, his immediate image was far more BDSM, which was not really his thing. ‘In charge’ was more his speed, and that sounded exactly what Sherlock was describing. The relief changed, a tinge of excitement colouring it.

“Okay,” John replied, racking his brain for anything else that might be important. “Condoms?”

“I’m clean,” Sherlock said, “but it’s up to you.”

“I know I’m clean,” John replied, “and I trust you.”

“I trust you, John,” Sherlock replied, and the simple words were enough between the two of them.

“Good,” John said. Cupping Sherlock’s face in one hand, he smiled and said, “Let’s have some fun, then.”

Sherlock smiled, and John took just a moment to marvel at the gift he was being given. Sherlock’s trust, whole and unreserved.

Christ, he hoped he could live up to this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here beginneth the smut. ;)

“Right,” John said. He could feel Sherlock’s expectation as he waited to see what John would do. They’d both showered – separately – and were standing in Sherlock’s bedroom, in robes and (John hoped) nothing else. John had grabbed lube when he’d retreated to his bedroom, allowing him a few moments of quiet freaking out while Sherlock showered. Considering Sherlock standing there – clean, basically nude and waiting for him to decide what sexual acts they were about to engage in – was a little overwhelming.

Take it slow, then. Find their rhythm.

“Come closer,” John said, smiling a little. “I can’t kiss you from here.”

Sherlock stepped forward, stopping in front of John, waiting for him to make the first move. John lifted one hand, stroking Sherlock’s cheek before bringing him down for a kiss, barely a brush of lips before they parted again. The gentle presses lengthened, John feeling Sherlock relax, his lips begin to move under John’s as they joined. It was like high school, he thought dimly, kissing someone tentatively, not sure how it will evolve, or how much experience they have, or how far it’s going to go.

Pulling his mind back to the present, John wound his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, encouraging him to bend further, make himself available to John’s mouth. When John’s teeth scraped gently along Sherlock’s lip, the whimpered response was delicious; John moaned, doing it again without thinking. The sound was intoxicating but before he could do it again, Sherlock’s mouth had opened and John found something even better.

Sherlock tasted like toothpaste, his tongue hesitant as it met with John’s. The feel of him sent John’s heart into overdrive, his fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair as he lost himself in the kiss. Sherlock’s body was perfect, pressing against his, one large hand at his back pulling John in as though he might change his mind. The slow wind of tongues, the stutter of breath as one or the other found a sensitive spot, returning again to hear the response once more…

Grasping at the trailing ends of his concentration, John drifted his kisses across to Sherlock’s ear. It was a little too high to be comfortable.

“Sit down for me,” John murmured, pressed on Sherlock’s chest. They stumbled backwards until Sherlock’s knees hit the bed and he sat, the kiss breaking as their height difference reversed. John resumed kissing Sherlock’s ear, playing with his teeth and tongue as he murmured.

“I think today I just want to play a little. See if I can find out what you like, how much you’ll take for me.”

Sherlock whined, and John felt his hands flutter before returning to his knees, where they’d been resting. He was nervous. John’s mind raced. _How can I encourage him?_

“Put your hands on me,” John whispered, his groan joining Sherlock’s as he felt large hands brush his thighs, finally settling on his arse. “Mmm, I do like being touched,” John said, hopefully reassuring Sherlock. “Keep your hands there.”

The kissing was slow and deliberately teasing. He explored Sherlock’s neck; the textures of skin behind his ear, along his hairline, the line of tendons down to his shoulder. There was no pattern or even a decent plan. John had no idea if he was teasing himself or Sherlock, though it was certainly working on him, if the state of his rapidly filling cock was anything to go by.

When he could feel Sherlock trembling, the hands on his arse squeezing in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, John decided to see how serious Sherlock was about his desires in bed. With a last nip at Sherlock’s earlobe, John stepped back out of range of his hands.

“Stand up,” he said, and Sherlock complied. His eyes were heavy and he was breathing hard, but he followed John’s instruction without hesitation.

“I want you to lie in the middle of the bed. Without your robe,” John told him, aware of his own heaving chest. It was a bit surreal when Sherlock complied, pulling the tie of his dressing gown loose and dropping it to the floor. Contrary to John’s assumption he was wearing pants – black, well fitted and probably expensive. Certainly straining, from what John could see.

Sherlock hesitated, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants, looking to John for direction.

“It’s up to you,” John said, crossing his arms. “You chose.”

Sherlock thought for a second then climbed onto the bed, leaving his pants on. He lay in the middle of the bed, as John had directed, and waited.

“So you’d rather have your pants on, then,” John asked, rescuing the lube from his pocket as he discarded his own dressing gown. He could see Sherlock eyeing the lube, very deliberately placed beside Sherlock’s head. “Well if that’s what you want…”

Without warning, John climbed onto the bed, knees either side of Sherlock, pressing his hands into the bed. His cock hung full and heavy between his belly and Sherlock’s.

Eyes locked on Sherlock, John spoke slowly. “Just so we are very clear, you are going to lie here while I…explore.”

Sherlock nodded, his own eyes wide as they locked on John’s.

“Were you serious about your limits before?”

Sherlock nodded and John had the unfamiliar experience of Sherlock giving over his trust entirely. It wasn’t unheard of during a case, or chasing down some ruffian or other, but in such a personal context, John was certainly unaccustomed to the feeling.

“Stay still unless I tell you to move.” John said, channelling Captain Watson, “but I want to hear you. Moan for me.” Sherlock whined, and John grinned.

“Let me know what’s good. If you say stop, I will stop,” John told him seriously, though he could feel the smile still dancing on his mouth.

“What…what if I say please?” Sherlock asked, his cheeks flushing.

John raised one eyebrow, his expression smouldering instead. “If you don’t beg me at some point, Sherlock Holmes, I am not as good at this as I think I am.”

Before Sherlock could do anything more than gasp, John lowered his head, sucking one nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it, feeling his face tighten into a grin as Sherlock’s chest heaved. John could see it in his mind’s eye; Sherlock’s head would be thrown back, the tendons visible as he bit his lip, eyes closed.

It occurred to John that he didn’t have to fantasise and he tilted his head up, cock jumping as the vision from his head appeared before his eyes. Sherlock, lower lip caught between his teeth, fighting the urge to move. It was fucking hot, John thought, and he wanted more.

John kept his mouth moving, teeth scraping lightly over skin as he trekked across to Sherlock’s other nipple. He felt the body below him tense as though waiting for the same treatment; in response he teased, licking around the areola, barely brushing the very tip with his tongue, blowing cool air over the wetness left behind.

Sherlock groaned, the sound reverberating through his chest.

John grinned, pressing more firmly with his tongue, wondering what would make Sherlock gasp and squirm.

Oh, the possibilities, he thought dazedly.

As it turned out, a slow build was what made Sherlock gasp and squirm. Firm, careful pressure on the right spots, soft stroking at others; the elicitation of each reaction a thrill, ramping up John’s arousal alongside Sherlock’s.

It took a lot longer than the direct approach, but John had Sherlock breathing hard instead of bucking wildly. His fingers had come up to rub gently at Sherlock’s sides, tracing the shape of the ribs that were still far too prominent for John’s liking. It seemed to calm him enough for John to continue his wandering.

Bringing Sherlock back to the edge with his tongue, John’s fingers roamed lower, skating over the flat expanse of belly and stopping when they reached the edge of Sherlock’s pants.

“What a pity,” John murmured, “these are in the way.”

Sherlock groaned in protest, but John shifted his hand away, abandoning the nipple so he could breathe directly into Sherlock’s ear.

“You made your choice. Now you have to live with the consequences.”

“John…” Sherlock whined.

“Yes?” John asked innocently, pulling back so he could see Sherlock’s face.

“Please, John…” Sherlock whispered, his eyes closed in what John was pretty sure was mortification.

“Please?”

“Please touch me, John, please…” Sherlock’s voice was high and thin, desperate. “Please…I need you…please John, please…”

It was almost a mantra, chanted as he breathed hard, fingers clenched hard into the blankets.

“Please what, Sherlock?” John prompted him. He brought one hand up, stroking the side of Sherlock’s face, still revelling in being allowed to do this. Hopefully the gentle touch would encourage Sherlock to be open – if not explicit – about what he wanted.

“Please…touch me…”

“I am touching you, Sherlock,” John said, knowing it was semantics, wanting to remind Sherlock who was in control here. “Be specific.”

“Touch me…touch my co…cock…” Sherlock stuttered, his eyes still closed.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John said, fingers still soft.

When Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, John did not change his stroking, but he allowed his voice to harden. “Look at me.”

The eyes that opened to meet his own were hazy with desire.

“I can’t touch your cock,” John told him, “because you chose pants on, remember?”

“B-but…” Sherlock stammered, “but you’re in charge, John.” The admission sent a shudder through Sherlock.

“Yes,” John mused, “I am.”

Slowly he sat back, his weight settling on the thighs below. He grunted as he felt his balls press against something firm. The something twitched as Sherlock gasped. Cock, then, John thought in amusement, shifting his weight to a more comfortable position. Sherlock’s face was fascinating, he thought absently, showing every emotion more vividly than John had ever seen. How did he keep all that hidden away?

“So since I’m in charge,” John continued, “I suppose you’d have to convince me to let you take your pants off, wouldn’t you?”

“Convince you?” Sherlock repeated.

“Mmmm,” John answered, rolling his hips ever so slightly, allowing a long groan to escape at the friction between his bare skin and the black fabric – and what lay beneath.

“Show me what you’re missing out on.”

At the first tentative touch John swore, his muscles clenching as Sherlock’s fingers traced the shape of his erection.

“That’s right,” John said between gritted teeth. “Touch me. Show me what you wish I could do for you.” He closed his eyes as the stroking grew in confidence, curling around him, sending fire through his blood.

“Lube,” John gasped as the fist stuttered against his skin. Sherlock fumbled with it, his fingers achingly absent for a dozen thundering heartbeats before they finally returned, slick and cool. John thrust up into the grip, just once, and heard Sherlock gasp over his own uneven breath.

“Fuck,” John groaned. He had no idea how much experience Sherlock had with this but it was pretty fucking amazing. He’d be concentrating more on not coming too fast than anything else, at this rate.

The fingers on his cock were moving steadily, and John felt another tentative touch cupping his balls, squirming underneath. He leaned forward, bracing himself on his elbow, kissing the shoulder he found right before his face, moaning as the exploring fingers pressed back further, agonisingly slow.

“Do it,” John growled, scraping his teeth along Sherlock’s shoulder. “I want your fingers in me.”

“How…how many?” Sherlock asked hoarsely.

_God, he really does want me to make decisions._

“Start with…Christ…one,” John said. “Wait, more lube first…”

The bottle was right beside Sherlock’s shoulder, so John opened it, trembling as spread lube over both their hands in his haste and tossed the bottle aside. He felt the touch return as the rhythm on his cock resumed, this time moving back with more confidence. One finger circled him and he felt his breath catch then resume, panting hard as he waited, trying to relax through the anticipation…

“John….” Sherlock whispered as he pressed his finger up, into John’s body. It was slow, but John wanted more.

“More, Sherlock,” John gasped.

The hand moved incrementally. Sherlock’s face was contorted as he grappled to hold back his own arousal, and John wasn’t even sure Sherlock could hear him.

 _Gonna need to help him out._ With his free hand John grasped Sherlock’s hand, sliding his own finger along to press Sherlock further into his body.

“Oh!” Sherlock gasped as John’s body drew him in. John’s groan was relief and arousal and the remembered fucking hotness of this, as Sherlock moved slowly, pressing in a circle, testing the sensation of this new act. His hand was trembling, shaking inside John.

He needed more, more of Sherlock’s fingers. John knew they were longer than his, could easily reach further...

“You need…just…” John bit out, not able to find the words to describe what he needed. _Fuck it_. His own hand was slippery; it took little effort to slide his own finger forward, meeting Sherlock’s inside him.

The high pitched squeak told John his finger had been noticed where it pressed beside Sherlock’s. He slid his finger sideways, slipping around Sherlock’s, feeling his muscles clench around both of them at once.

“John?” Sherlock asked, breathing hard, “are you…”

“Yeah,” John answered, only half concentrating on Sherlock. The other half was naming the bones of the hand in an effort to stop himself coming.

He had done this before of course, had his fingers inside himself. It was never as good as with a partner; his fingers were too short, the angle never quite right. He’d even tried it at the same time as a partner before, but never like this. Never as…overwhelming as this.

_Never with Sherlock._

“John, you’re…we’re both…”

“Yes…” John bit out as he felt Sherlock’s finger move tentatively, pressing further into him. He felt it inside himself, and he felt it against his own finger, and Christ above, he felt it in his prostate, against which Sherlock had just nudged his fingertip.

“Inside,” Sherlock whispered, his hips bucking as John groaned, his internal muscles clenching hard.

“Fuck!”

“Prostate...” John gasped, barely holding onto his orgasm. From what he could hear, Sherlock wasn’t that far off either; gasping, groaning every other breath, muttering broken sounds of John’s name.

He raised his head, seeking Sherlock’s eyes, wanting to watch his expression, to drink in the knowledge that he was allowed to see the emotions flittering across Sherlock’s face. With a surge of concentration, John found the words he’d been looking for. He had to admit that part of him just wanted to see Sherlock’s face when he said,

“If you want to work me wide enough for what’s in your pants instead, you need to move your finger, Sherlock.”

In retrospect, that was a mistake. Sherlock jerked at John’s words, his eyes going wide, hips bucking, hands clenching.

As they did, his finger pushed further and curled, pressing hard against John’s prostate.

In the split second before his own vision whited out John realised three things.

Sherlock had come without taking his pants off.

He, John, was about to come harder than he ever had.

This was going to be one hell of a wild ride.


End file.
